"How about --" he hissed out the words, reluctant syllables like lead. It would take some severe alchemy to forge any gold from those sounds, but Edward was very little if not determined. He drew his chin upwards, groaning as the most relevant wave of agony flushed over his flesh.

At the very least, it was a goldmine for someone, and Eridan had always possessed such a princely fee.

Eddie kept his eyes skyward, as if unwilling to watch any more blood loss.

"How. About. What have I done to. Deserve this, from you?" His lips pried away the words, the emotions embedded in those vowels. Despite the efficiency of Eridan's brief medical support (after all, Eddie wasn't bleeding to death), he could still feel the sticky sickness of oxygen-exposed blood against his own skin. His nerves ached and the corners of his mouth quivered with little groans.

Nevertheless. Eddie would have been loathed to drop the theatrics now.

"I've made you so much better," he insisted.